Trojan Orbit

by Mack Reynolds

  There was a green-coveralled girl at a desk near the door. Pal waved his papers at her triumphantly and chortled, “Where do I get my discharge, sweetie? I’ve served my ever-loving time.”

  She looked up from the booster screen she had been scanning and said, “That’ll be Captain Borgia. Room 4, down that hall.”

  “Borgia?” he said. “Jesus, if I had a name like that I’d change it to Brown.”

  She didn’t bother to smile.

  Humming again, he made his way down the indicated hall to Room 4. The door was open. Inside, behind a metal desk, was obviously Captain Borgia and, Pal Barack decided, he looked the name. He was dark of complexion, flat of eye, and had mustaches been currently in vogue, and had he sported a flowing black one, he could have passed neatly as a pirate.

  The captain was talking to a blue-coverall-clad construction worker who looked sullen. Pal Barack took one of several straight chairs that sat near the door, crossed his legs, and waited patiently for his turn.

  The construction worker was saying disgustedly, “Wizard. I give up, damn it. Where do I see about the new contract?”

  The captain scribbled on a note pad, ripped the paper off, and handed it over. “Room 7, Miller. And congratulations.”

  Miller took the paper, grunted contempt, got up and left.

  As he passed the Hungarian, Pal said, “You must be out of your mind, chum-pal.” He vaguely remembered having seen the man once or twice before. A deep-space construction worker.

  “Yeah,” Miller growled ungraciously.

  Pal Barack got up, went to the desk, and put his sheaf of papers before the Security officer. “Pal Barack,” he said. “Five-year man. The contract is up, as of three-and-a-half minutes ago.”

  “Sit down, Barack,” the other told him. He scanned the contract. “Landscaping, eh?”

  “If you can call it that,” Pal said. “For five years there’s been no land to scape. I used to specialize in golf courses back Earthside.” He laughed bitterly. “They used to say we Hungarians were the only people in the world who could put a dime in a pay toilet and hit the jackpot, but not even a Hungarian is going to landscape a golf course, or anything else, starting with lava dust.”

  The captain ignored that, switched on a desk screen, and read Pal’s name and serial number into it. He looked at whatever came onto the screen contemplatively. Finally, he switched it off.

  He looked up and said, “Figure on signing over for another five years?”

  Pal looked back at him. “No.”

  “We’ve got a new policy,” the other told him. “You’re due for a special re-enlistment bonus of twenty-five-thousand dollars. And your base salary is upped five thousand a year. Both payable in LFC stock, of course, when the contract is terminated.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “We’re short of your type of worker.”

  The Hungarian snorted at that. “So far as I can see, you’re short of all types of workers. Tough shit. I’m heading Earthside on the first passenger freighter and that’s the Armstrong and it’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

  The captain sized him up, weariness there. He said, “You should know better than that, Barack. Haven’t you read your contract? When your five years are up you are given transport back to Earth on a standby, space-available basis.”

  The feisty Hungarian gypsy eyed him coldly. He said, just as coldly, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The captain leaned back in his swivel chair and sighed. “Barack, if you’ve been here five years, you should know the facts of life as pertaining to the Lagrange Five Project. Travel between Earth and Island One is largely a one-way thing. Except for a few shuttles, almost everything sent up from New Albuquerque is in unmanned, heavy-lift launches. They take everything we’ve got to have into Earth orbit to the Goddard space platform. From there, it’s sent in the passenger freighters, such as the Armstrong, either here to Island One, or to Luna orbit, where it’s transferred down to the moon base.”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with my going back to Earth now that my contract’s up?” Pal Barack said, his voice ominously low.

  “Don’t you see? Sending you back by passenger freighter to the Goddard in Earth orbit is no problem at all. There’s lots of room. But getting you down from there, the last 0.1 percent of the return trip, is the thing. The only human transport from the Goddard to New Albuquerque are the shuttles, there aren’t that many of them, and they can take only a few passengers apiece.”

  “Okay. I’ll be one of the few.”

  The captain nodded agreeably. “You’ll be placed on standby, space-available. Unless, of course, you change your mind and sign up again.”

  “I won’t change it. How long do I have to wait?”

  The captain smiled a smile devoid of humor. “That’s up for grabs. You’ve just got to wait until there’s room for you. I suggest you sign up again. By the time you’ve put in another five years, you’ll be rich.”

  Inwardly, Pal Barack was beginning to boil. “Rich with what?” he said. “With LFC stock? In five years that stock won’t be worth its weight in toilet paper.”

  The Security man took him in for a long moment. Finally he said softly, “Your dossier lists the fact that you’re a troublemaker, Barack. That you’re inclined to sound off. Including talking to that Earthside freelance writer, Bruce Carter, yesterday. You know that island workers are supposed to steer clear of visitors at the L5 Hilton.”

  “You’re damn right they are,” the Hungarian snorted. “You’re afraid we’ll let them know some of the real facts.”

  “That’s enough, Barack. I suggest that you sign a new contract. If not, then you’re on standby and we’ll advise you when there’s a passenger freighter with room available.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Pal told him with some heat. “I’ll pop by here every day to check, until there is. Meanwhile, I’m short of funds. Like everybody else, I’ve spent my pay as fast as I could get my hands on it. Mostly in the Luxury PX, bar, and restaurant. I want an advance on the 100,000 dollars I’ve accumulated Earthside.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Barack. You are issued that bonus when you return to Earth. Besides, it’s in the form of stock, not cash credits. When you get it, you’ll have to sell it if you want cash.”

  Pal Barack stared at him. “You mean to tell me I’m stranded up here, now that I’m off the payroll, with no funds at all?”

  The other said patiently, “You should have thought of that when you were blowing your pay, Barack. From what you say, you’ve gone through ten thousand a year just for frivolities. All your food, clothing, shelter, medical care, and entertainment are provided. It’s sheer stupidity that you’ve left yourself short.”

  Pal was still goggling at the other, disgust in his eyes now. “Frivolities! Love of Jesus, do you think that there are any of us who could keep from going drivel-happy if we didn’t have our occasional blowoffs? At the end of the month, when we get our pay credited to us, we make a beeline for the Luxury PX, the Luxury restaurant, and the bar. Three hundred dollars for a mediocre meal. But at least it’s food. A hundred bucks for a couple ounces of raw alcohol. A couple of hundred for enough cheese or ham, or whatever, to make yourself a sandwich or two. And those of us who don’t have a woman? All the single mopsies in the island are lined up with the higher echelons, the supervisors, the Corporation staff, the scientists, and you Security funkers…”

  “Watch your language, Barack,” the captain snapped dangerously.

  “So what do we ordinary slobs do? We go to the Everleigh House and treat ourselves to a paid-for piece of ass. Frivolities! How I’ve remained sane for five years, I don’t know.”

  The captain didn’t bother to reply.

  Pal Barack said, breathing deeply, “This standby routine. How come all of the bigwigs and you Security people all take trips back and forth to Earth every six months or so, and we contract men can’t even get passage when we want it after we�
��ve served our time?”

  The other said wearily, “Once again, you should’ve read your contract before you signed it, Barack. The more important employees of the Lagrange Five Corporation are guaranteed periodic rotation and rest leave. Due to space limitation, the same cannot be granted to others. There are thousands up here; if everyone wanted a two-week vacation Earthside every year, we wouldn’t have the spaceships to bring up anything else. And, now, if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy.”

  “What makes Security personnel important employees?” the Hungarian snarled, as he took up his papers. “They’re the most useless people in the island. You haven’t heard the last of me, Borgia.” He turned and stormed out.

  Captain Borgia looked after him thoughtfully. He finally flicked on one of his desk TV phone screens and said into it, “Pal Barack. Keep an eye on him. He looks like a potentially active malcontent.”

  Pal Barack, seething, left the Security offices and the hotel and crossed the street to a larger than average building, given Lagrange Five City standards. Island One’s Luxury PX was in three sections; the PX proper, looking like a small Earthside supermarket, a restaurant that would possibly seat two hundred, and a bar that could handle about a hundred customers at a time.

  The Hungarian made a beeline for the sole public drinkery in the island. At this time of the day and at this time of the month, there were few customers. Rather than taking a table, he went right to the bar and to one of the two bartenders. He climbed up onto a stool, ignoring the other customers next to him, and snarled at the bartender, “An ounce of straight and some cola to stick it in.”

  The bartender said, “Don’t take it out on me, chum-pal. I only work here. Credit card?”

  Pal handed over his credit card. The bartender put it in the payment slot, deducted the amount, then handed it back. He reached under the bar for an unlabeled quart bottle and carefully measured out an ounce of the colorless contents into a tall glass. He reached down again and came up with a bottle of cola mixer and put it before Pal to mix his own.

  The Hungarian knew the other was right. The poor cloddy had his own troubles. Everybody who worked in the Luxury PX was moonlighting, save for a few Security men. It gave you a chance to make some extra credits to expend on luxuries, so called, for yourself. Pal suspected that it also gave you an opportunity to do a little ripping-off. What would keep this bartender, for instance, from cadging a few drinks when no Security officers were around? However, Pal Barack was still steaming in indignation. He poured cola into his straight alcohol, then took a third of the drink down in one long swallow.

  The man on the next stool said, “I’ve never seen anybody come out of an interview with Borgia who wasn’t sore.”

  Pal looked over at him impatiently. It was Miller, the construction worker who had preceded him in the Security office.

  The Hungarian landscaper said, “You’d be sore, too. My contract’s up. I’ve been looking forward to this day since the first few days I arrived in Lagrange Five. And now what does he tell me? I might be sitting around here on my ass for weeks before I get a berth to go home.”

  “You dreamer, you,” Miller said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I caved in after six months.”

  Pal Barrack gaped at him. He brought up his glass quickly, took another long pull at his drink, and then stared again. Miller drank some of his own drink. He was a big man, in the construction worker’s tradition. Big, strong-looking, tough-looking. He didn’t seem the type who’d allow himself to be put upon.

  Miller said, “I suppose I must have been one of the first to sign up on the new five-year contract. It ran out six months ago. They put me on standby for passage home. So I stood by. They twisted my arm to sign up again. Not too hard, but too long. I got to figuring it out. In the six months not working, I lost fifteen thousand tax-free dollars, counting the bonus. So I took the hint and caved in.”

  “Holy smog,” Pal said in protest. “Why didn’t you put up a howl? Why didn’t you beef to everybody and his cousin?”

  “Because I wanted to play it smart,” the other said, gloomily staring down into his drink. “I didn’t want to antagonize the Security boys, and they antagonize easily. I figured that if they got sore enough, I’d never get my transportation.”

  The Hungarian finished his drink and pushed the glass toward the bartender, who had retreated down the bar to talk to his mate. He came back, took Pal’s proffered credit card, and put it in the payment slot. He took it out again and handed it back, saying apologetically, as though he knew how it was, “Sorry, chum-pal, you don’t have enough credits for a repeat.”

  The landscape man stared at the card in disgust. “I didn’t know I was that low,” he muttered.

  Miller said, “Have one on me. I’m back on the payroll.”

  “Well, thanks,” Pal said in surprise. It was the first time the small man could remember anyone buying him in a drink in the five years that he’d been at Lagrange Five. Guzzle was just too expensive for a man to be generous.

  When the bartender had served them both and drifted off again, Pal said, “See here. Do you know anybody that’s served their term and got back home?”

  The other shook his head. “No. And I’ve looked into it. The first four whose contracts expired were given a bang-up party in the hotel. Lots of real guzzle, good food, even mopsies. Hell, even pot to smoke. When they woke up in the morning, they found they’d signed over again. That smartened the rest of us up. And when our contracts expired we refused invitations to a similar party, but we might as well have gone.”

  “Didn’t any of you put up a beef?”

  The construction man looked around first and then lowered his voice. “Yeah, a friend of mine. It got him beaten up by characters unknown. But even that didn’t shut him up. So he was found a few days later drifting around outside. There was a king-size leak in his spacesuit and the suit’s emergency system was on the blink.”

  Pal Barack was boggling again. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  The other applied himself to his drink.

  Pal said, “Listen, have you ever been to one of the WITH-AW-DOH Club meetings?”

  “No. I’ve heard about it. It’s that sour grapes outfit. Security takes a dim view of them, so I’ve always steered clear.”

  “Well, you’ve got nothing to lose now. Why don’t you come along to the get-together tonight? There’ll be some people there that’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on that,” Miller said. “Somewhere along in here, us worms gotta turn.”

  When Pal Barack and Jeff Miller arrived at the public auditorium that evening, it was to notice two Security men standing across the street from the entrance. “Sons of bitches,” Pal muttered. “Al Moore would like to crack down on the WITH-AW-DOH Club, but he can’t find an excuse. It presents itself as a kind of tongue-in-cheek organization. What In the Hell Are We Doing Out Here? Not really serious. He doesn’t have any valid reason for folding it up. There’s too damned little entertainment as it is. Beginning to crack down on what few things we have to do would be too damned blatant even for him.”

  “You know,” Miller told him, “in all the reading I did before coming up here, and in all the Tri-Di shows I saw about the Lagrange Five Project, I never saw anything about the Security police. There’s no mention of it in the public relations propaganda that Ron Rich puts out.”

  Inside the fairly sizable hall, they found that at least a hundred members had already arrived. Largely, they were standing around talking with soft drinks in hand. Occasionally, off to one side, you could see one of them bring a pint bottle from a coverall pocket and spike his drink. Pal shuddered. Bootleg. Bootleg guzzle might be passable down Earthside, but with the materials they started with in Island One, it was grim.

  Adam Bloch met them at the door and shook hands with Pal. “Didn’t expect to see you,” he said in his soft, rather empty voice. “I thou
ght you’d be packed and waiting at the docking compartment.”

  “Yeah,” the Hungarian said sourly. “Give me a violin and I’ll play you some gypsy music that’ll have the tears running down your face.”

  Adam Bloch was a sad, gray-faced man somewhere in his early forties. He gave the impression of realizing that life had largely passed him by. That somewhere along the road he’d made the wrong turn, so far as happiness was concerned. His space coveralls looked somehow incongruous on him. He should have been dressed in a conservative suit, complete with forgettable tie.

  He cocked his head slightly to one side. “Something go wrong, Pal?”

  The Hungarian indicated his new friend. “Meet Jeff Miller. You know those rumors we’ve been hearing about difficulties getting passage home when contracts expire? Well, Jeff’s got the whole story and it’ll freeze you.”

  Bloch shook hands with the newcomer. “I’ll be interested to hear it,” he said.

  “I think it ought to be brought before the Central Committee,” Pal said.

  The construction worker scowled and said, “What Central Committee?”

  Adam Bloch said quickly, after looking at the Hungarian in surprise, “Perhaps we’ll tell you later, Mr. Miller. Meanwhile, make yourself at home. You’ll find that most of us with the WITH-AW-DOH syndrome are compatible people. There’s punch over there at that table.”

  Pal sighed and said, “Non-alcoholic, of course. Once a year, we throw a big bash, combine our resources and buy a half gallon of straight one-ninety at the Luxury PX, or maybe from one of the black marketeers, but this isn’t it.”

  Even as Jeff Miller wandered off, Adam turned to Pal Barack. “Was that intelligent?” he said.

  “Yeah, I think so,” the other told him. “He’s going to be a good recruit. Really bitter and it’s all boiled up inside him. And basically, he’s tough. He’s been playing it quiet, making no waves until he gets out of here, but now he’s had it.”

  Bruce Carter came in and looked around with interest.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pal said to him. “So you made it. I didn’t think Security would let you out.”